The Universe Next Door

All that you need is a bucket of steam and a good tune to whistle and a chaseable dream and at night you’ll make over-grand plans for a morning that only exists in a catalogue – rattled off, drunkenly schemed up and easy to toss as an empty.

Beneath a layer of spaceship debris, making small figure eights of tobacco and thinking the only way to get ahead is by leaving yourself every second for a better universe (next door there’s one where the drinks come for cheap and the girls come for easy and the rooms rent for free). I return far too often to things I should run from; I blur what’s important and bring up what’s done (next door’s open later, let’s transfer our checks – with a toss of the pen and soft kiss on the neck).